


come home to me

by niconii



Series: sing you to sleep [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The First Avenger, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Protective Bucky Barnes, Rescue Missions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:08:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23096095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niconii/pseuds/niconii
Summary: Steve gets captured by Hydra during their last mission, and Bucky will do anything it takes to bring him home.---Series/fic title & vibes from Come Home by We Are The Guests
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: sing you to sleep [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1552096
Kudos: 16





	come home to me

Bucky hates nights like this. 

He hates the endless waiting, always waiting, while the mission (there’s always a mission) looms dark as a nearby storm. He hates that he’s been on enough missions to recognise the stench of death, heavy and cloying even as the men sit around in their little groups filling the air with jokes and laughter, like it’s just another day, like they’re not going to die tomorrow. He hates that he’s lived through enough missions to know they’re going to die tomorrow.

There’s a little less than fifty men altogether, packed into a forest clearing on the outskirts of yet another Hydra factory, all passing the time mindlessly as they wait for instruction. Instruction from him, from Dugan, hell, they’d even listen to Dernier, but really, everyone’s just waiting for Steve. Right now, Steve’s got his Captain America act out in full force, with the Howlies gathered around a map on a tree stump, discussing strategies and plans. Bucky stands off to the side, arms crossed, leaning against a tree.

He’s sulking. He knows he is; he’s been feeling outright bratty and he’d nearly lost it earlier when setting up his shitty little tent proved more unmanageable than usual. There’s a- feeling about this mission, and he just can’t pin it down. Something’s wrong, something or everything or nothing. It’s the snow, the unshakable frost clinging to him like death, it’s the shitty standard-issue rifle he has to use today because his regular one got damaged, it’s not being able to defrost by clinging to Steve, his personal fireplace. He feels displaced, off. He mostly feels cold.

He’s cold all the time now. The bootleg serum Hydra trialled on him in Azzano works differently from Steve’s, the camp doctors had informed him after multiple check-ups, unconsciously rubbing their hands together to get them warmed back up. Something about conserving energy or shit like that, he wasn’t listening. On the other hand, Steve burns so much now that he feels like a fucking incinerator. The past summer was pure hell, but winter nights like these make up for it. Pressing his chilled body to hot skin every night, feeling the ice in his limbs melt, Steve pulling him impossibly closer and sultrily suggesting other activities to warm him up even more-

Bucky tears his gaze from Steve, cheeks warm. 

He doesn’t know what there is to be embarrassed about. They’ve been together so long he’s not sure they’d ever existed apart. They’re not boyfriends, though, not exactly. Nah, they’re too old for that shit. They might have, could have been that and more before the war, when they were naive and blind with teenage love. But this war had killed the boys in them and remade them anew, grim and monstrous and glorious. He’d stopped trying to find a name for their unspeakable decades-old thing for a long time now. 

No one notices when he peels away from the group. His legs carry him to a clearing a few feet away from the campsite, a flat rocky perch on the edge of the cliff overlooking the silent Hydra building down below in the valley. He settles down on the cold rock, legs swinging casually over the lip. Even here, the crisp air feels heavy in his lungs.

He leans back on his arms with a sigh that comes out just as fogged as he feels. This is as isolated as he can get these days, stolen moments between unending missions with the muted chatter of men always on the fringes of his senses. It lasts for barely a minute. His enhanced ears pick up the soft crunch of approaching footsteps, cautious but firm and steady. The weight is all off, but he’d recognise that gait anywhere, in dusty schoolyards and run-down apartments and dark alleys. Unthinkingly, his tensed body softens in relief.

Steve emerges from the trees, tentatively inching closer like he’s navigating landmines, waiting for Bucky to go off. The intensity of his gaze burns Bucky’s skin in the frigid winter air. He can feel it even without looking; Steve’s careful hesitation is easy to read in every deliberate, delayed step, and Bucky can hear his breathing now, strong and deep.

Steve is soundless as he settles down on the rock, nestling close to Bucky like a ship docking home.

Steve relaxes, mirroring Bucky to sink his palms sink into the snow, which melts like candlewax around his fingers. Bucky can feel the heat of his fingertips like fire against his own.

“Last mission.” Steve sighs, all traces of his Captain America bravado gone. He sounds smaller, tired. “Dernier’s gonna create a distraction, I’ll lead the charge, and you’ll cover us while we get inside.”

There’s a pause, Steve staring intently at Bucky as the other man pointedly avoids his gaze. When he speaks again, Steve’s voice is soft, as tender as a love confession. “We can go home, Buck.”

That prompts an incredulous scoff out of Bucky. “Fuck.” He shakes his head and takes out a half-pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. He’d never smoked before all this, never made a habit of it, but it didn’t matter here. Nothing did. He just wanted to feel warm again.

“Home.” The thought of it brings up something dark and vile in his chest, like someone had hollowed him out, scraped him clean and shoved a cold brick of lead where it used to be. “I don’t think we have a home anymore, Steve.” He lights a stick and takes a long drag before his brain catches up to his body. He exhales, slowly, tense, watches as the smoke curls around Steve, little asthmatic Steve who’d nearly lost his life to a particularly bad day in the spring, wheezing so hard Bucky was sure that day was gonna be his last. He watches now as Steve chews on his lip, deep in thought, breathing in the smoke steadily. 

He offers the stick to Steve, just like he would with any of the other Howlies. It feels unnatural.

He doesn’t even hesitate, taking it like they’d been sharing smokes for years. The sight of Steve with a cig between his lips like it’s the most normal thing in the world makes Bucky feel sick.

Steve exhales, a pure white mix of steam and smoke. “Don’t really care.” He’s mumbling, and if It weren’t for his enhanced senses Bucky might have missed it entirely. “As long as we-“ he pauses, stuck on the right words. Ash falls from his fingers and muddies the white snow grey. 

“Just- God, we- we gotta stick together, Buck, I don’t know what I’d do if-“ He cuts himself off by taking another puff, the stick glowing bright orange in the dusk of night. Bucky pretends not to notice the light trembling between his fingers, pretends Steve’s just shaking from the cold. 

“Fuck, don’t go all sappy on me now, punk.” Bucky forces a grin and punches Steve in the arm, not hard. 

Steve sighs, shakes his head like he’s clearing a fog, and stabs the half-burnt cig into the snow with a soft fizzle. “You’re a fuckin’ jerk,” he says affectionately, and grabs Bucky’s collar to pull him in close.

Their lips meet softly, tenderly, a dance they’ve done a thousand times. It’s familiar and welcoming, here in this sea of unknown and strange things, blue magic and chaos and thousands of strangers. Somewhere in the fog of Bucky’s mind, it feels something like home. Steve tastes like smoke and warmth and the unnatural tang of artificial berries; the insanely rich nutrient mix they’ve got him chugging every few hours so his body doesn’t go into starvation. Jesus. They used to live off nothing but scraps and goodwill for years, and now Steve can’t go a couple of hours without half-starving.

Like he’s reading Bucky’s mind, Steve’s hand moves to the back of his neck and grips it gently, grounding him.

They pull apart after a long second. It’s too risky for anything else while the rest of the men are still within earshot, busily getting prepped for the mission. Steve’s eyes are fixed on Bucky’s, and he’s frowning like he’s trying to piece a puzzle together in his mind. He opens his mouth to say something, but Bucky cuts him off.

“Hey, hey. I know.” Bucky murmurs, and Steve’s hand is still on his nape, almost burning. He raises his own to grip Steve’s. There’s a knot tight in his throat, a deluge of everything unspoken between them just clawing to pour out, but he can’t bring himself to speak, almost like saying anything else would break more than the silence between them.

Steve’s worried expression melts away and he sags, pressing their foreheads together, eyes fluttering shut. “Thanks,” he breathes. “God, I’m just so tired, Buck.”

Bucky can hear it in his voice, the stress of being a living god picking at his seams, can feel him unravelling and slipping from his fingers like silk. Every mission, every death ripping him apart and all Bucky can do is hold him and try to keep him together.

“It’s the last mission.” Bucky echoes with a pained smile, pulling away from Steve and feeling the cold flood back into his skin. “And I always got your back, you know that.”

A particularly loud peal of laughter echoes from the camp, shattering the quiet like glass. Steve looks over, shaken into alertness, but it’s nothing, just the men goofing off as usual. With an amused snort, he turns back to Bucky.

“Yeah, I know you do. You sappy shit.” He nudges Bucky in the ribs, smug grin plastered on his face.

“I’ll throw you off this cliff right fuckin’ now, I swear.”

“Hah. If I’m going down, you’re coming along with me.” 

Bucky’s snappy retort is interrupted by a sudden commotion from the trees.

“Cap! Cap! Rogers!” Dugan’s voice pipes up faintly, carried alongside laughter and indecipherable chatter. “Barnes! Y’all gotta hear this!”

Bucky rolls his eyes, an amused smile creeping onto his face. “Christ, what’re those clowns up to now?”

Steve chuckles and gets up in one swift motion, extending a hand to Bucky. “C’mon. Time we rejoined polite society, anyway.”

The thought of being surrounded by men marked for death makes Bucky’s skin crawl.

“Nah, you go ahead, I’ll join you guys later.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, yeah. I gotta, uh, take a piss, real quick.”

Steve frowns, his jaw clenching almost imperceptibly. Bucky can tell he wants to probe, knows he can hear the lies in the blood pounding quick in his chest. 

“C’mon, what the hell are y’all doing over there?” 

A long second passes, and Bucky braces himself for a confrontation. But eventually, Steve sighs, resigned, and puts his hands on his hips the way he does when he’s frustrated. “Ok then. Don’t be too long.”

Bucky waves a hand dismissively, unable to bring himself to watch as Steve strides off back to the group, listening to his footsteps melt into the faint chaos of noise.

He sits at the edge of the cliff, and tries not to think about tomorrow.


End file.
